


the games (that play us)

by aimingarrows



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Callbacks and parallels galore!, F/M, Fusion of Series 4 and TJLC, Incorporation of TJLC meta and discourse, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Otherwise known as how Series 4 should have been, Season/Series 04, Series 4 - Canon Divergence, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 22:38:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12241986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimingarrows/pseuds/aimingarrows
Summary: One year after marrying his wife, John Watson elopes with his best man.If only it was that simple.Or, the true story, as it should have been told.





	the games (that play us)

**Author's Note:**

> Series 4 was a disappointment so I decided to try my hand at writing a fic where elements of TJLC merged with elements of Series 4 as a way to cope and as a form of catharsis. The wonderful, brilliant, intelligent and beautiful TJLC meta floating about plus the constant wondering of how wonderful and beautiful things could have been inspired me to write this fic. Hopefully you all like it!

_To us, the fans, and to Sherlock and John, who deserve it the most, because the writers got it wrong._

~~~ 

In a house, a long time ago, a little boy tells his brother a story.

Twenty-five years later, it comes true.

*** 

_Part I: The Stage is Set._

If someone were to ask Sherlock a few years ago if he believed in luck, the answer would have been – quite simply, no. Luck was a construct. A simple concept people created to explain a complex series of events. It was a reduction of the truth, the complicated, the intricate, and so _no_ , Sherlock didn’t believe in luck.

Now, however, as he sits waiting for his brother to give him his final sentence, he thinks that if someone were to ask him that question again, he would give a different answer. After all, what else could explain the reasons behind his constant evasion of death? His appointments, always, sometimes inexplicably, sometimes impossibly, halted. Is it actually luck? Or is there something he’s meant to do? To accomplish? Something he’s meant to finish, before the universe finally allows him to sink into Death’s clutches? But then, if that were the reason, if he were meant to finish something first, then that would be believing in destiny, and Sherlock would never let himself fall under such a fantasy.  

He hears a tapping behind him. John. Sherlock can tell that he’s drumming his fingers against the metal lining of the table he’s leaning against. Soft tapping but in an irregular pattern. John is anxiously waiting as well. He can hear Mary’s quieter breaths a bit farther away. But he cannot bear to glance back, to lock eyes with John and seek his support, to glean strength from him, when he knows that despite the relief he will find in John’s eyes, it will be veiled by a disappointment. 

In his defense, he wasn’t ever going to see John again. Forgive him for hopping himself up on drugs. John would never have found out if it weren’t for that suspiciously timed message.

_Moriarty is dead_ , Sherlock thinks to himself in a mantra. _He is dead he is dead he is dead heisdeadheisdeadheisdeadheisdead_

_He is dead._

Whoever this is, it isn’t Moriarty. But despite his conviction, he knows that Moriarty will always be there, deep in the recesses of his mind, chained and rankled, but still very much alive, even if his physical form is dead. A spirit in the mind is an entity that can never die, and what a tragedy there is in that. Moriarty’s memory is a ghost that will haunt him until the day he finally makes his appointment.

_And yet,_ Sherlock thinks, _it’s too perfectly timed. Too convenient. Too opportune._

_The universe is rarely so lazy._

Sherlock steeples his hands underneath his chin, closes his eyes, and ponders – _when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

_The only logical assumption, the only explanation of all the facts, is that someone knew I was leaving England, and ensured that recording go off at that specific time so I would return. And that person must be, in one way or another, connected to Moriarty. Someone has been watching._

_Something’s coming. Posthumous revenge? No. Posthumous game._

_Well then,_ Sherlock thinks as he opens his eyes, _the game is on._

***

“What you’re about to see is classified _beyond_ top secret, is that clear? Only those in this room have access to this information,” Mycroft drawled, imparting a weather eye on Sherlock before turning to the screen where the D-Notice was displayed, hovering ominously behind the backs of Lady Smallwood and Sir Edwin.

“As of Christmas Day, Charles Augustus Magnussen was killed by some over-eager squaddie with an itchy trigger finger, whose services have since been terminated.”

Sherlock shares a look with John. As he turns away, he sees that the screen displaying the D-Notice has turned into a video. He watches as the perfectly doctored footage absolves him of the event that had transpired that fateful Christmas evening. The video switches off. The ploy for his return was obvious. 

“That is now the official story,” Mycroft declares, granting Sherlock and John with a pointed look, imploring them to follow the ruse.

“Extraordinary,” Lady Smallwood mused. “How did you do it?”

“We have very talented people on our staff.”

“Well then,” Lady Smallwood looked at Sherlock, “that’s it. You’re off the hook, Mr. Holmes. You’re home and dry.”

Sherlock felt his heart skip a beat. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Sherlock leaned forward, narrowing his eyes as he pinned his stare onto Lady Smallwood. “Simplicity is the easiest form of deception. What’s the catch?”

He heard John groan behind him, a sound he is very much well acquainted with. “Sherlock, for Christ’s sake, don’t bloody ques-”

“ _What’s the catch?”_

Because it really is never this simple. At least when it comes to Sherlock. There was always a catch, there was always _something_. Things are rarely simple. Simplicity paved the way for deception. It can lead into a fall sense of security. And if this is going to be taken away from him, this _freedom_ that he has so simply been granted, he would rather know now lest he find himself becoming comfortable once again. He doesn’t think he can bear saying goodbye another time. It’s best if he steels himself now, to deprive himself of temporary happiness, because if he acquiesces, then the sadness of saying goodbye would become much more profound.

And just because he had escaped death this time, there is no guarantee that it would be a permanent reprieve. It could just mean, quite simply, that he was granted a few more months of life.

“There is no catch, Mr. Holmes,” Sir Edwin responded swiftly. “We need you to take care of this problem, and in payment for your service we have decided to grant you your freedom.”

Sherlock inhaled and settled back into his chair. He surveyed both Lady Smallwood and Sir Edwin, eyes flickering over them in their quicksilver speed, trying to catch them in a lie.

“You swear that I will get to keep my freedom?”

He watched as Lady Smallwood and Sir Edwin turned to look at Mycroft. A beat passed, and they nodded their heads at his brother.

He turned to look at Mycroft and found his brother staring back at him, his gaze so intense that Sherlock felt Mycroft was trying to burn through his retinas.

“On England’s word.”

***

John Watson has had to say goodbye to Sherlock Holmes twice.

And everytime, Sherlock Holmes has come back.

On the roof. On the tarmac.

For some reason, impossible seems to be a word that doesn’t exist in Sherlock’s world. A resurrection. A dramatic return. Seemingly fantastical possibilities that have turned concrete. Real. Miracles that appear to be nothing but a fiction, nothing but the quiet dwellings of the mind, the silent yearning of the heart. And yet –

And yet with Sherlock miracles become real. Fantasy becomes reality. The impossible becomes possible. John can barely believe it sometimes, this life that he has managed to attain. This life with this madman, this genius, this detective.

He glances to the side and sees Sherlock leaning against the car door, typing quickly on his phone, utterly consumed with whatever task he’s doing. Mary sits between them, sequestered in the middle, her baby bump a prominent swell. London passes swiftly as they make their way back to Baker Street.

He still cannot believe it. Cannot fathom that this is real. That his quiet plea, his unspoken, silent wish for Sherlock’s plane to return had actually been granted. 

He has asked for Sherlock Holmes to come back twice.

And everytime, Sherlock Holmes has come back.

***

Seeing Sherlock settle into his chair is a surreal experience after the tumultuous and emotional events of the day. There is a silence pervading the flat, dust floating in the air – a reminder of Sherlock’s absence while in government custody. It makes John feel a little sick, imagining Sherlock in those cells, dark and alone with nothing to occupy his fantastic brain. For a second, he understands why Sherlock fell prey to the temptation of the needle.

He may be able to understand, but that doesn’t mean he likes it.

He purses his lips, and sniffs, watching as Mary sits herself down on the sofa, giving a slight _oomf_ as she settles in. John should have probably offered help. He turns to look at Sherlock instead.

“You alright?” John asks, still standing underneath the doorframe.

Sherlock stops typing and looks up from his phone. “Of course I am, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you just overdosed,” John deadpans.

Sherlock scoffs and rolls his eyes before looking back at his phone. John sniffs, suddenly feeling the latent rage he experienced on the plane rising to the surface again at Sherlock’s blatant dismissal, quelled temporarily by happiness at the news of Sherlock’s permanent return. “Sherlock –”

“Leave it John,” Mary interjects, her hand on the swell of her belly.

John feels his rage boil over to the surface at Mary’s comment. The anger broiling in his stomach spilling into his chest, making him feel as though his ribs were on the cusp of cracking and his heart on the edge of exploding. He could feel the anger choke him. He angles his body to her as his anger finally spills over, “No! No I will not leave it, Mary! Of course I’m not going to bloody leave it. He overdosed Mary! He,” John waves a hand towards Sherlock, who is now staring at John and Mary with wide eyes, phone forgotten in his hands, “fucking _overdosed_ , and could have died! So no, don’t you _dare_ tell me to bloody _leave it!_ ”

Mary’s eyes are hard and cold, and he knows that the minute they get home they’re going to end up having a blazing row. He should look away from her, but he refuses to be the first one to relent, because even though it sounds stupid, it would feel a little like admitting defeat.

“John.”

Sherlock’s voice cuts through John and Mary’s intense staring game, which forces John to look away. At the sound of Sherlock’s voice, John’s heart starts pounding again in a vicious, angry rhythm.

“And _you!”_ He swerves in a dramatic flair that would put even Sherlock’s theatrics to shame, “What the _hell_ were you _thinking?_ ”

And then John feels it. The pinprick behind his eyes. But he refuses to cry, he can’t afford to break down, not here, not now, not when Sherlock’s just overdosed and is back on drugs, not when Mary is pregnant with his child, not when something is out there, waiting in the shadows for the right time to strike. The situation is just too fragile, too hard, and John can’t afford to break down. He needs to stand his ground and he needs to stay strong.

But the anger at Sherlock’s overdose, the sorrow over his departure, and the fear of never being able to see him again threatens to consume John. Seeing Sherlock climb into the plane, the final swish of dark fabric disappearing into the jet, and watching as the plane took off, getting smaller and smaller as it got farther and farther away nearly broke John right there and then. Seeing the physical evidence of Sherlock’s distance, of Sherlock being taken away from him, knowing that he was on that plane, and seeing it disappear and get farther away inch by inch, highlighted the fact that Sherlock was becoming more unreachable by the second.

Seeing the plane flying like a bird against the blue sky, getting farther away, meant seeing the distance between him and Sherlock. A distance that John believed would never be closed. And yet he remembers not being able to look away, wanting to drink in the last vestiges of Sherlock he could, even though it wasn’t him John was seeing, knowing that he was on the plane was enough. He remembers thinking that of course, _of course_ Sherlock’s departure would be the one day England would be granted with clear, cloudless, blue skies. Beauty was always the best mask for tragedy. It was only Mycroft’s exclamations that finally brought John out of his reverie.

Which is why it takes every inch of his willpower to push his emotions down from the surface back into his inner recesses. There has seldom been any moment in his life where he has ever felt this much this strongly.

Sherlock is staring at him, something pained in his eyes. His mouth opens and closes, as if he doesn’t know what to say next. John continues to pin his blazing stare at him. 

_“Well?”_

“There are other more pressing issues to focus on, John. Focus on those,” Sherlock says hardly.

“Nope,” John shakes his head. “No. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to sit there and tell me this doesn’t matter, because it _does,_ Sherlock, whether you want to acknowledge it or not. To you it may be a way to ‘ _alleviate boredom’_ or to ‘ _occasionally heighten your thought processes’_ as you so _eloquently_ put it, but it’s more serious than that and you don’t get to tell me that it’s not!”

John watches as Sherlock works his jaw, his quicksilver eyes boring into John. The attention makes John’s throat dry. 

“I’ve disappointed you,” Sherlock says finally, in an echo of a conversation they had so many years ago.

_Don’t make people into heroes, John._

“No,” John shakes his head sadly, a bitter smile gracing his features, “you’ve hurt me.”

Sherlock looks stricken. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve hurt me, Sherlock. It hurts me to see you this way. It aches watching you do this to yourself. Don’t make me go through this.”

“I…John I,” Sherlock stutters in that way that John knows he’s genuinely taken aback. His eyes are blinking rapidly, mouth working in such a way that indicates Sherlock is looking for words to express himself.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock finally settles, his head drooping down as he fiddles nervously with his phone. “I…I had no intention of hurting you. I’m sorry,” his throat bobs, “forgive me.”

And god, John can’t help himself. He _does_. He forgives Sherlock, right there and then. Because how could he not? He is still so, very, very, angry, but the remorse and sadness on Sherlock’s face is real. John’s been around Sherlock long enough to know his tells, and so he knows Sherlock’s apology is genuine. He’s always had a soft spot for Sherlock, and that, plus the overwhelming relief of having him back, is enough to get John to forgive him.

He feels his face soften despite his resolve to stay cross. “Promise me you aren’t going to use again. Promise me this stops now.”

Sherlock nods once. “Promise.” He casts his eyes back down to his lap, his phone lying forgotten in front of him.

John nods, a resolute action. _I made a promise too_ , he thinks, _and I intend to keep it as well._ He stands straighter. “Right, well,” he turns to face Mary, who he sees is watching them in a steady, unwavering gaze, “I’m going to stay with Sherlock for a while.”

_“What?”_ Sherlock and Mary’s voice coalesce, but in two decidedly different tones.

“I need to look after him,” John replies simply.

Sherlock is blinking rapidly again, but he nods slowly and looks back down to his lap where his hands are now twiddling together as if he doesn’t know what to do with them. Mary, however –

Mary is _glaring_ at him.

“I think you’re forgetting, John Watson, that you have a baby on the way.”

“Staying with Sherlock doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten about the baby,” John grinds out. “I made a promise to Mycroft that I would look after Sherlock. I intend to keep that promise.”

Sherlock’s head snaps up, a flicker of disappointment crosses his face before it disappears, almost as if it was never there. “So you’re doing all this because Mycroft asked you too,” Sherlock says in a flat voice.

“No,” John shakes his head, “I’m doing all this because it’s what I would have done anyway.”

“John,” Mary’s voice intercedes, cold as ice. “I think we need to have a private conversation.”

John looks at her, and sees from her face that there is no room for argument. He nods once in affirmation to her request. He turns toward Sherlock.

“I’ll see you later, yeah?” Sherlock nods his head in a silent answer. He is fiddling with his phone again. His foot has begun tapping incessantly against the rug. There is a sheen of sweat across his forehead. The withdrawal has started to kick in, John realizes. It makes leaving much harder, but he knows he must lest he wants to incur more of Mary’s anger. Best to get it quick and over with, like a band-aid. John winces at the thought.

As he turns to leave the room, he notices that Mary has already started the descent down the stairs. Before he gets his foot out the door, he hears Sherlock murmur quietly, “Thank you, John.”

***

“He needs me, Mary.”

“He’s a grown man, John.”

“Sorry, I’m not doing this,” John threw his hands up, ready to turn away and march upstairs to prepare for his return to Baker Street.

Mary grabbed a hold of his arm, stopping him in his tracks. “Yes you are. _We_ are doing this, John. You’ve spent enough time during my pregnancy by his side. I’m your _wife_ and we have a child coming. Figure out your priorities, John. You have an obligation,” she spat.

“You had an obligation to be honest with me when we married each other,” John retaliated. Mary took a step back, her face pained but her eyes still blazing. It’s the first time he’s brought up The Issue since Christmas Day at the Holmes residence. It is also, truly, the first time he has had such a severe argument with Mary since the day he found out she was lying to him. They had mutually, through a silent, unspoken agreement, decided to ignore The Issue as much as possible. Avoidance was supposed to make things easier. And it did, but only for a little while. Only until today.

“So that’s it, then?” Mary says forcefully, her face back in a sneer, “You’re throwing that in my face. You’re choosing him over your baby? Over your _family_?”

“That is not what I said. Don’t you dare twist my words,” John clapped back. He clenches his left hand by his side. 

“But that’s what this is, John! Whether you want to admit it or not! You _are_ choosing him! You want to spend every minute by his side! For Christ’s sake, John, you didn’t see him for a _month_ after the wedding and you were grieving like a bloody loon!”

“He’s my _best friend!”_

“Then why is it that every argument we seem to have is because of Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes?!” Mary shouted, her voice rising to a crescendo at Sherlock’s name. Her face was red and she was breathing hard.

John was struck silent. He was confronted with the realization that what Mary said was, in fact, undoubtedly true. Every argument – every _serious_ argument – not the petty things like whose turn it was to do the shopping, has been about Sherlock. Or has tangentially been related to Sherlock in some way.

John remembers Mary mentioning off-handedly during their honeymoon that she had felt upstaged by Sherlock at their wedding. It was meant to be a joke, but John remembers feeling a little uneasy after she said it. He knows that jokes always have an underlying element of truth woven into their words.

John remembers finding out Mary’s secret because she had shot Sherlock. He had found out because of Sherlock.

And now this. An argument about priorities brought to the fore once again because of _Sherlock._

He couldn’t say anything because he knew she was right.

“Husbands and wives aren’t supposed to argue over _best friends_ , John,” Mary whispered, her hands starting to curl around her arms in a display of dejection. “And _best friends_ aren’t supposed to take precedence over family!”

John noted the tone her voice took when she said ‘best friends.’ He wasn’t sure what to make of it. “What are you implying Mary,” he recited in a flat voice.

He watched as his wife stared at him for a few beats, looking caught out, almost nervous, as if she had said something she didn’t mean to say. Some inner thought finally, and unwittingly, brought to life. She blanked her face. “Forget it, John,” she finally settled, turning to walk away.

“No,” John responded, walking in front of her and stopping her in her tracks. “What were you implying?”

“I said forget it. I just blurted it out, I wasn’t thinking. It’s nothing to concern yourself with. Forget about it. Now, are you staying here, or not?” Mary babbled.

 John stuttered.

 “Oh you can’t be serious. Seriously? Even after all this, even after you know how I feel and how upset I am about this, you’re still choosing _him?_ This is fucking unbelievable, John. Truly, it is.” Mary’s fury had risen again. She moved away.

 “Mary, please understa –” John implored. He made a move to grab her arm.

She ripped it out of his reach. “ _No_ ,” she snarled. “Don’t ask me to understand this John, don’t ask me to sit here, pregnant and alone, while my husband chooses his best friend over and _over_ again. Because Sherlock was wrong, John. You didn’t choose me. You have never chosen me. You have always chosen _him_.”

Mary made a move to move away again, her voice finally reaching a loud, angry rumble as she spat out ‘ _him’_ like it was poison. John felt the angry urge to defend himself, because how dare she? How dare she accuse him of not caring about their family? As if she had forgotten what she had done, what position she had put all of them in? That she is the reason John and Sherlock went to Magnussen in the first place, even after Lady Smallwood’s case was strung up and finished? How dare she stand there and spit words at him when she has played a bigger role in this mess than John and Sherlock combined?

He made a move towards her, shouting as his rage finally boiled over. “How _dare_ you,” he hissed, “how _dare_ you put the blame on me. How _dare_ you forget your role in all of this. How _dare_ you neglect your responsibility in this mess. How _dare_ you get angry at Sherlock for doing this for you!”

“He did it for _you!_ ” Mary screamed back without pause. “He made a vow to protect the both of us, but he shot him for _you!_ ”

“For _me_ ,” John squawked, “how the _hell_ was that for me!”

“Pressure points, you said John. Magnussen had pressure points. Your pressure point was me. You were Sherlock’s. He knew that if Magnussen were to release his information on me it would affect _you_. He shot him, not for _me,_ but to spare _you!_ ”

John made a move to argue back, but Mary’s face had twisted at the end of her tirade. A sharp grimace graced her heaving red face. She put a hand to her stomach and another to brace herself against the wall. Her breath hitched loudly and she released a low, pained, moan. John’s anger disappeared.

“Mary?”

“John,” she replied breathlessly, her eyes suddenly wide with fear as she looked at him.

“I’m bleeding.”

***

They lose the baby.

Getting Mary to A&E was an exercise in discipline like John had never experienced. If he had to be honest with himself, he can barely remember what happened after Mary had said she was bleeding until the moment the doctors came out and told him that the baby – _his little girl_ – was gone. Premature birth. Didn’t make it. Our deepest condolences. Your wife is asleep in her room. 

It shocked him out his daze, and the first thing he could see was red. The dried, crusted blood staining his hands, inside his fingernails, in the crevices of the lines of his palms. Blood, on his shirt, on his jeans, streaked across his forearms.

And then he sees _red._

Stress, the doctors had said. Overexertion. Over-exhaustion. Put too much strain on the baby. _We’re sorry, we’re sorry,_ _we’re sorry, we’re sorry, we’re sorry._

_CondolencescondolencescondolencescondolencesyourwifeisinherroomI’msorryDoctorWatsonyourbabyisgonecondolencescondolencescondolences –_

Amazing, John thinks bitterly, how your heart can be mended and broken all in the space of one day.

He clenches his fists in sheer anger, sheer _hatred_ at himself. He put Mary under stress. It was because of him, his unwavering, steadfast, _idiot_ self that had put her under so much stress that she lost the baby. He should’ve done better. He should’ve _known_ better. He should have stopped the minute he realized she was getting more riled up than normal. What kind of fucking doctor is he? What kind of selfish, moronic, stupid –

John sniffs, then takes a deep breath. His left hand twitches. He leans his head against the wall. The plastic chair is making his arse and back ache. He doesn’t care. He closes his eyes.

His phone beeps, and John wills himself to check.

_When are you coming? I bought that Thai crab curry you like for dinner. SH_

Then it crashes into John like a train.

_“Why is it that every argument we seem to have is because of Sherlock bloody Holmes?!”_

_Sherlock._

Sherlock, who John put above Mary. Sherlock, who John put above his baby. Sherlock, who Mary had gotten angry over. Stressed over. Exhausted over.

Sherlock, whose position and presence in John’s life had played a part in the loss of his baby. And John let him. Because John _chose_ him.

John feels like he’s going to be sick. He drops his phone from his hands as if it scalded him, and watches it scatter across the linoleum floor, Sherlock’s text still illuminated on the screen. John can’t bear to look at it. His hands are shaking.

He can’t go back to Baker Street. Not after this. How can he go back and face Sherlock? All he’s going to see whenever he looks at Sherlock’s face is the face of the man who he chose above his daughter, a choice which she paid for with her life. How can he stand to be in the same room as him? He can’t, oh _god_ , he can’t. He resents Sherlock. Oh god, he _resents_ him. John’s throat constricts. He can’t breathe. There’s a pinprick behind his eyes again, and he squeezes them shut. He has to stay strong, he can’t afford to let himself cry or break down. He needs to stay strong. For Mary. For the memory of their little girl.

Oh god, _Mary._ John’s chest tightens with a profound guilt. It feels like he’s choking on air. He shouldn’t have pushed. He shouldn’t have shouted at her and he should’ve known better. She deserves better than a man who helped push her to the edge. He has to make it up to her, _god –_ he _has_ to. He can’t, oh god, he can’t take this.

She’s going to need him now more than ever. Hell, they’re going to need _each other_ now more than ever. And John will stand by her, god knows he will, because he fucking owes her that much.

He can’t see Sherlock, he _can’t_. Not after this. It’ll be too painful, too agonizing. The resentment for Sherlock that has been born from this will be too hard to squash down. If not for Sherlock’s presence, if not for John’s lackluster performance as a husband and a soon-to-be father, his little girl would still be safely ensconced in her mother’s womb. Warm, safe. Now she’s _dead._ She’s _gone._

She didn’t even have a _name._

At that thought, John’s dam finally breaks. He dry heaves as the tears finally spill over, falling silently down his cheeks. He hides his face in his hands, and cries for a little girl who never got a chance. The pain in John’s chest is so raw and profound, like knives stabbing his heart over and over again with no sign of impending reprieve, that he feels like he’s going to die. His guilt is going to kill him, John is sure of it.

He needs to get ahold of himself. He needs to be there for Mary. He needs to do the right thing – he needs to choose his wife.

And to do that means –

He picks up his phone.

The resentment was supposed to make it easier. John hates that it makes it harder. 

_I’m sorry._

***

After John and Mary leave, Sherlock takes to cleaning the flat for John’s arrival, his giddiness at having his best friend coming to stay with him finally being allowed to show through. Showing his happiness while Mary was obviously upset with John’s choice would have been, as John would put it, _not good._

He starts with the living room, arranging a few papers to make the room look less hazardous. He fluffs a few pillows, putting extra attention into fluffing the Union Jack pillow on John’s chair. He then moves towards the kitchen, where he notices that there’s no food. He resolves to get food from the Thai place that John loves, he’s going to want some comfort food to make him happy after the argument he’s going to have with Mary, Sherlock thinks to himself. His science equipment is already stowed away, probably Mrs. Hudson’s doing. He then goes up to John’s room, and the musty smell is the first thing that hits him. The silence, accentuated by the presence of the dust floating quietly in the air, is a bitter reminder of John’s prolonged absence from the flat.

Sherlock seldom goes up there for that very reason. It was painful enough seeing John’s empty armchair. Sherlock had only ever sat in it once after he came back – after the wedding. He had gotten home, taken one look at the empty chair, the draft from the upstairs bedroom seemingly pushing him forward, and he had collapsed into it. He curled up in John’s chair, tucking his coat around him like a cocoon, and had stayed there curled up all night. He did not sleep. He got rid of it the morning after. 

Sherlock moves towards the cupboard where he knows John left behind a few bed sheets, and sets about making the bed. He dusts the room afterwards, knowing that even though he thinks dust is elegant, John doesn’t share his opinion. He turns the heater on, knowing fully well that John likes sleeping in a warm room, and goes out to get the takeaway. He stops at the small Tesco’s on the way back, picking up milk, tea, bread, jam, eggs, and beans – enough for a nice breakfast tomorrow.

By the time he gets back to Baker Street, it’s late enough that John should already be back. As he enters he catches Mrs. Hudson hanging up her coat, her hands shaking. He can smell Molly’s perfume on her and the beer that Lestrade likes, so she must’ve met up with them after Moriarty’s broadcast. Sherlock only now realizes that she wasn’t home when John, Mary, and he arrived earlier that day.

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson cries, rushing over to envelop him in a hug. Sherlock can feel her body trembling as he awkwardly places his hands on her back, careful not to let the plastic containers from the takeaway and the shopping from Tesco dig into her back.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs into her hair, “I’ll figure this out. I promise.”

“Oh Sherlock!” She pulls away, holding his face in her hands. “You said he was gone!”

“He _is_ gone, Mrs. Hudson. I’m sure of it,” Sherlock replies in a soft, yet forceful voice. 

She nods then steps away. “I didn’t expect you back so soon. Mycroft said you were off doing a mission for him? You weren’t meant to be back for a few months.” 

Ah. Yes.

“Evidently, England needed me more.”

At that, Mrs. Hudson chuckles. A soft, dainty sound that warms Sherlock’s heart. He feels his heart do a little flip, and he’s suddenly hit with the fact that he has missed her so much while he was in confinement. The thought of not seeing her again physically pains him. Having her in front of him makes him even more glad that he’s back. Smelling Molly’s perfume and Lestrade’s beer also hits him with a pang of longing for his other two friends.

Sherlock bites his lip as he feels the pain from his chest spread into a stinging behind his eyes. “I need to go, Mrs. Hudson. John’s going to be staying for awhile so I just bought some stuff for the flat.”

Mrs. Hudson’s eyes light up. “Oh! John’s staying with you? Oh, Sherlock, that’s excellent!” She claps her hands together, a twinkle shining in her eye. “It’ll be just like old times!”

Sherlock lips give a little quirk at that.

“Well I’ll let you get to it then! I’ve kept you for too long. Oh, Sherlock, I’m so glad you’re back!” She gives him a final pat on the cheek before turning around and entering her flat.

He finds himself staring at the door to her flat for a few beats, relishing her silhouette through the obscure glass on her door. He has missed her terribly. When she disappears from view he starts his journey up the seventeen steps to his flat.

He hadn’t told Mrs. Hudson, Molly, or Lestrade about his exile. Hell, they didn’t even know he had anything to do with Magnussen. As far as they were concerned, Sherlock, John, and Mary had decided to spend a few more weeks with Sherlock’s parents. It was an easy enough story to spin. _Simple_ enough to buy. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, still concerned for Sherlock, and Mary, being heavily pregnant, had insisted that the three of them stay for a while longer, intending to care for the both of them. John, on the other hand, would receive a break from tending to their son and his wife. While recuperating, Mycroft pitched a mission to Sherlock, and Sherlock, so utterly _bored_ of being stuck in bed, had readily accepted out of sheer desperation. John and Mary were to see him off, and then they would promptly return to London.

Then six months later, they would get the news that something went terribly, _horribly_ , wrong. As if Sherlock’s death wasn’t the endgame at all. As if it was all just a terrible, _tragic,_ accident.

And then they would grieve. And then they would move on.

As Sherlock glances around the kitchen after placing his shopping on the table, he glances at the cupboard containing his science equipment. Mrs. Hudson must have cleaned up the flat after Mycroft told her that Sherlock would be going away for six months. She was prepping for his return, six months from now. She kept the dust just as he liked it. It makes his heart clench and forces him to sit down. 

In the silence of the flat, under the illumination of the ceiling light, Sherlock is struck with how utterly empty the flat is. The dust, still present, is floating in the air, little specks of it highlighted by the minimal light in the room. Apart from the kitchen light, the flat is drenched in darkness. Sherlock feels a cold pang wrap his heart in a vice-like grip. After his return and before Christmas Day, Sherlock had made a habit of turning on all lights in the flat, telling himself that he likes the bright illumination. In the silence and darkness of the flat now, he realizes that he did it to stop feeling lonely.

Without anything to occupy him – be it cleaning or shopping – Sherlock is suddenly hit with pangs of withdrawal. He feels a sudden tiredness take over him, his bones going lax and heavy, and he realizes that his head is aching. There’s a dull noise inside his head, and every sound is punctuated, like a hammer knocking against a gong, reverberating through waves. The light, minimal it may be, suddenly fills his eyes with pure white and makes the throbbing in his head worse. Sherlock swallows dryly, clenching his fists in his lap. 

_You made a promise, Sherlock. For John, for John, for John._

He blinks to get rid of the light in his eyes, black spots now dancing in his vision. Through the fabric of his trousers, he feels his phone, and shakily takes it out.

_9:31pm._

John had left around 2pm, he should have been here already. Sherlock clenches his fist around his phone, willing his vision to become clearer as he presses his contacts list and scrolls down to John’s name. He presses his name and types out a text message.

_When are you coming? I bought that Thai crab curry you like for dinner. SH_

He needs to do something, he needs to keep his hands busy, something to occupy his brain so he can forget the pain of withdrawal, if only it may be a temporary reprieve. He saw the look on John’s face when he realized Sherlock was going through withdrawal – it was a sadness punctuated by a small slice of _pity._ And god, Sherlock did not want to be _pitied._ Sherlock knows that John probably wasn’t even aware of the look he was giving, but he resents the looks nonetheless.

He doesn’t want to see that look on John’s face when he comes back. So, god help him, he needs a distraction until John gets here. When John is here, he’ll help, and Sherlock knows this. But until then, until he is graced with John’s company and for now is currently sequestered in all his loneliness, he needs to actively search for a distraction.

So he shuts his eyes once again, letting his phone drop on the kitchen table, and he takes a deep breath. _Once, twice, thrice. And again._ His fists slowly unclench and he stands up shakily, unpacking the takeaway on the table and moving to put the shopping away in the fridge. He steels himself as he grabs the plates, gripping them tightly as to not drop them due to the shaking of his hands. He deposits them carefully on the table, his eyes lingering slightly on the scratch made by a blade that one time before their case about the Chinese ciphers. He finds himself tracing the score lightly, closing his eyes as he remembers a time before everything had gotten so royally complicated. Sherlock is suddenly hit with how much has changed and how much time has passed. It leaves him slightly breathless. He finds himself reminiscing through his memories, and finds that those with John in them seem to stand out, shining brightly amongst the slightly more dim vestiges of his life.

He sees his life play out like a film reel, the moments and scenes with John with the brightest and most colourful light, the others dull by comparison.

He opens his eyes and takes another breath. He turns to go get the cutlery.

After setting the table, Sherlock takes his violin, running his hands over it for a few seconds, relishing the feeling and familiar weight of the instrument in his hands. He sits down on his armchair, placing his phone on the armrest in clear view so Sherlock doesn’t miss John’s message.

He plucks at his violin, irritating the calluses in his fingertips. The dull ache of his fingers and discordant sound of the violin provides a safe distraction. Something to do with his hands. The music filling his brain. It isn’t a lot, but it should be enough until John gets here. 

Sherlock doesn’t realize that he has closed his eyes until they snap open at his phone’s text alert. A small chime startles him, and he lets the violin fall gently onto his lap before grabbing at his phone.

There was a part of him that had hoped John would let his drug use pass. He had tried to wave it off, to will it away nonchalantly, in a hopeful attempt to persuade John to leave the issue behind, that he was _fine_. He didn’t want to deal with it. His disappointment. Mycroft’s was enough, but Sherlock would never admit to that. He couldn’t deal with _John’s_. John’s disappointment is like a stab to the heart, and it is that utter feeling of complete failure that makes Sherlock want to be better than who he is. 

But he wasn’t going to see John again. He wasn’t. He _wasn’t._ So it was okay, wasn’t it? John wasn’t going to see. John wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t be disappointed. Christ, John hadn’t even known he was going to his death.  
  
Sometimes, Sherlock thinks, ignorance is kinder.

But what’s worse than disappointing John is hurting him. Where disappointment is like a stab in the heart, hurting John is like being frozen in ice, where the cold seeps into your bones, piercing your organs, and your skin feels like it’s being stabbed all over. It’s like being stabbed on your insides and your outsides, but you can’t move, you can’t speak, you can merely sit there and wither as your body becomes frozen all over.

He hadn’t meant to hurt John. It’s the last thing he ever wants to do, but in that moment he did, and he hurt him badly. He had figured that John would storm off, go somewhere else to cool down a bit like he used to do when Sherlock had annoyed him back when they lived together. He had thought John would give himself some time, stay away for a while. Hell, John had already gone through so much because of Sherlock that Sherlock wouldn’t even have been surprised if John had decided to just leave and not come back. Maybe he would even give him an ultimatum.

But then John had said that he would stay. And that he would have done so anyway even though Mycroft had asked, and Sherlock’s heart had skipped a beat before widely thumping inside his chest so fast that he thought his ribs were going to crack under the pressure. He wasn’t going to leave, and he was going to come back that very same day. He didn’t push Sherlock to make a choice. He wasn’t going back home to cool off. He was coming back to _Sherlock._ He was going to help him, stand by his side because he thought Sherlock needed him. Mary had not been too happy about that, but in that moment Sherlock was just so happy that John had decided to stay that he couldn’t find it within himself to care. 

So as he grabs his phone, his excitement bubbling over because _John is coming John is coming John is going to stay with me again_ Sherlock starts to stand to make his way downstairs so he can wait for John outside, but as he unlocks his phone, he finds himself _falling falling falling_

_Landing._  

His limbs, now leaden but feeling light, numb almost, slam back into his chair in a sprawl. Sherlock can feel his hands shaking and a weighty drop in his chest. His legs feel like phantom limbs as his head starts to daze.

_It’s not the fall that kills you, Sherlock. It’s the landing._

The jolt back down into armchair sends wakes Sherlock back up from his daze. He finds his phone still grasped in his hand, screen bright, a message open. 

_I’m sorry._  

And if there is anything worse than disappointing or hurting John, it is this. A goodbye, an abandonment, He feels like he’s falling through ice water, falling falling falling, but anything he does, no matter how much he’s kicking, his hands scrambling towards the surface, he continues to sink like deadweight. A lone figure falling in a vast ocean, with nothing else in sight, desperately reaching for something so out of his reach. It feels like he’s grasping for something, trying to reach the surface, but he’s not being allowed to get what he wants – what he needs – and it is _that,_ that very feeling that is the worst of all. 

Hopelessness. 

*** 

Sherlock stares at his phone, and in his mind palace he is staring up at the surface of the ocean, at the rays of light shining through, but his body cannot get up from the seabed below.

The words from John’s text have long since jumbled up in Sherlock’s eyes, and the food has long since gone cold. John’s rejection and declaration of leaving (because what else could it possibly mean?) act as a sad and cruel contrast to Sherlock’s phone wallpaper – a picture of John and him from John’s wedding in their suits. Just the two of them, side by side, eyes locked onto the camera. It’s like the world decided to be unkind to Sherlock by placing a message of abandonment over a picture of complete solidarity. Somehow, it makes the pain worse.

After a while (minutes, hours?), Sherlock lets his phone drop from his hands, the object thumping as it lands on the rug underneath his chair. He picks up his violin and plucks at the strings until morning.

By the time the sun rises, his fingers are cracked and bleeding. 

*** 

Sherlock must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knows is he is startled awake by a voice. 

“Oh, Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson. 

He blinks awake blearily and sits up in his chair. There’s a pain in his neck and shoulders from sleeping in a bad position. 

He watches her dazedly as she takes a look around the room, clocking the cold food on the table then the blood stains on Sherlock’s violin where it slipped towards the floor as Sherlock slept before finally resting on Sherlock’s blood-crusted fingertips. She takes a seat in John’s armchair.

“What happened?” She asks softly, her eyebrows drawn down. “Where’s John?”

Sherlock clears his throat, feeling a little disgusted at the mucus buildup. “Not here,” he croaks.

“And why on earth not?”

Sherlock looks away and finds himself biting at his fingertips, his _shaking_ fingertips. The light streaming in from the windows is hurting his eyes and making his head pound. His throat feels scratchy and temptation is starting to broil in the pits of his stomach. He swallows shakily. 

“Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson asks, “Are you alright?”

“Psychedelic,” Sherlock deadpans, turning to look at her.

Mrs. Hudson narrows her eyes and hums. “Don’t joke with me, young man. You look like an absolute wreck.” 

“How kind of you to say.” 

“ _Sherlock Holmes_. Tell me what happened.”

“John left. He’s not coming back.”

Mrs. Hudson blinks as if she can’t believe what she’s just heard. Then she scoffs. “You don’t expect me to believe that, do you Sherlock? John loves you, he wouldn’t just leave.”

Sherlock’s heart takes a little pounding when Mrs. Hudson finishes talking. He wordlessly hands over his phone and she takes it from him, her eyes scanning the two-word message. She _tsks_ before looking up at him and turning the phone around to show the screen to Sherlock. He turns his face away slightly, not wanting to see the message again. 

“This doesn’t mean he’s left, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson says before handing the phone back to him. 

Sherlock swallows after he takes his phone back and places it face down on the armrest. “It’s the only thing that he could possibly mean. If he had planned on coming back he would have said so in the message. But there was nothing, no indication of plans of coming back. There was nothing except that. He knew I would be waiting for him to come back to Baker Street, so he would have mentioned if he was a little delayed or when he was coming so that I would know when to expect him. But he didn’t. So…” Sherlock waved his hand in a gesture of _well, you know._  

Mrs. Hudson frowns. “Oh, Sherlock…” 

“I’m going to put the food away.” 

He stands up shakily, his phantom legs bearing the brunt of his weight. He walks towards the kitchen, trying to get away from Mrs. Hudson’s sad eyes. _No pity no pity no pity_

“Sherlock…” Mrs. Hudson suddenly asks, turning around in John’s chair to look at him as he’s binning the food he went out to buy. The Thai crab curry is the first to go. Sherlock already knows that he’s not going to like the question she’s about to ask just by the tone of her voice. 

“Why would John leave? Why was he going to stay here in the first place?” 

Sherlock bins the last of the takeaway – vegetable spring rolls that John usually buys as his appetizer – he lets the bin lid fall shut as he finds himself sagging against the counter, fatigue taking over his body. 

He looks at his landlady, sees her lips pursed in thought, her eyes inquisitive. He entertains for a second to just lie. But he’s so tired. 

“I overdosed.” 

He hears a soft inhale but nothing more. He casts his eyes down, and the next thing he knows he’s being enveloped in a soft hug, Mrs. Hudson’s light touch rubbing circles on his back. He shudders. He doesn’t have to explain anything else, she knows how this all plays in. 

“If you need anything at all, I’m right downstairs,” she whispers softly before pulling away. He nods at her, her warmth coursing through the ice in his bones. He realizes that he’s bitten his nails down to the bud without realizing. His fingers look like a disaster. 

“What are you going to do now?” She asks softly. 

Sherlock smiles solemnly at her before looking over her shoulder into the living room, out into the street beyond, life in London breezing on even though Sherlock’s world is tumbling _down, down, down_. Funny, he thinks, how the world just keeps spinning. It makes him feel inconsequential. 

“Work is the best antidote to sorrow, Mrs. Hudson,” he whispers back, his eyes sliding to lock onto hers, “I think I have to get on with it.” She nods at him once. She knows what he means. Moriarty. At least it has the added bonus of keeping the withdrawal in the back of his mind, keeping his brain occupied even though his body is tearing itself to shreds. She claps her hands together. 

“Well,” Mrs. Hudson says, “I know just how you can start.” 

Sherlock quirks a brow. 

She smiles brightly at him before turning around and getting two mugs from the cupboards. She turns and holds the mugs up. 

“With a cup of tea, of course.” 

*** 

Time seems to be a fiction after that. The days start blurring into one. When Sherlock is not getting visits from Mycroft, he’s solving case after case after case, trying desperately to find a loose thread to grip on that he can follow and soon unravel. 

It only makes sense that whoever is playing this posthumous game would make callbacks to Moriarty. To the way their whole game started – with a case. 

Sometimes Sherlock feels like he’s trapped in cage, and above him, hanging on the ceiling, there are thousands upon thousands of identical keys, but only one of them is the real one – the one that can get him out of the cage so he can start running, chasing down whoever put him in there in the first place. He feels like he’s in a state of constantly jumping, trying to get a hold of key after key, putting it in the lock and trying to see if it’s the one, but everytime he is let down without fail. 

Sherlock spends most of his time with Lestrade, trying desperately to follow leads, even on cases that Lestrade isn’t helming. When he’s not with Lestrade, he’s with Molly, meticulously examining body after body, trying to see if there is anything, however minute it may be, that could lead them to Moriarty. A suspicious death, a callback to a case – perhaps a death by clostridium botulinum just like how Connie Prince died so many years ago during that case that John so cheekily dubbed ‘The Great Game’ on his blog. 

In the evenings, he sits at his dining table with Mrs. Hudson. She usually places a spread of food in front of him – typically all his favourites. She even once made the thing with the peas that John used to make for him. He thanked her, but it wasn’t quite the same. He usually just picks at the food and tries to avoid her sad gaze. He suspects she’s trying to keep him company as much as possible. He suspects even more that she’s keeping an eye on him so that he doesn’t fall back into the temptation of the needle. 

But at a certain point in the evening, she goes back downstairs.

In the dead of night, Sherlock spends his time looking at himself naked in the bathroom mirror. 

The cases are providing a distraction, but only just. In the quiet air of the night, he can feel the niggling at the back of his mind inching its way forward, making its presence all the more strong by the second. He copes by biting his nails down to the nub, by plucking his violin strings until his fingers bleed, and sometimes he sleeps. Not often enough to quell his constant fatigue, but he still sleeps. He finds that he can barely keep food down, even though some days he finds himself utterly ravenous. The consequences are reflected back to him every night. Sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, loss of muscle. He’s always been slim but now he’s thin as a stick, even thinner than he had been when he had first met John. His hair has lost its sheen, becoming coarse and thin. He’s lucky it hasn’t started to fall out yet. His lips are chapped and cracked, his nails blood-ridden, and his eyes are framed by dark hollow circles. The shaking in his hands persists, becoming worse by the day. Lestrade looked at him once, his eyes wide and sad, his worry unspoken in the air between them. Sherlock had simply looked away. 

He knew Lestrade suspected he was back on the source, but he never confirmed it. He didn’t tell Molly either. He supposes they know anyway, judging by the look on their faces whenever they see him. The way they try to get him to eat, to get him to slow down, to _rest_. Their offers of care and companionship have reached a point of becoming almost annoying. But Sherlock can’t find it within himself to get annoyed. One day they asked where John was, and Sherlock had simply said “Gone.” They had shared a look with each other and remained silent, but as he left he could hear them talking about it. 

There are days when he feels like he’s floating, his limbs light and airy, as if they don’t exist at all. Then there are days when they are downtrodden, heavy like lead, where every step is a daunting exertion. He heaves like a drowning man whenever he climbs up the seventeen steps to his flat. 

When he had first approached Lestrade after his return, the man had smiled cheerily, if a little anxious, clapping him on the back and expressing his happiness at Sherlock’s return. Molly had gripped his hands inside her own petite ones, smiling softly at him and saying quietly, but resolutely, that she was glad he had abandoned Mycroft’s mission to come back and teasing him slightly that he was England’s knight in shining armour. He had smiled back, because what else could he do, but as he left he saw her soft smile turn into a concerned frown, a slight furrow in her eyebrows that indicated she thought something wasn’t entirely right. 

She must’ve told Lestrade her misgivings, because the next time they met up Lestrade had asked him if he was okay. 

Seeing them again after thinking he was never going to come back was like a punch to the gut. Lestrade’s smiling and jovial face, Molly’s kind eyes – he was overcome with a profound sadness at the thought that he was never going to see them again. He loves them, and Mrs. Hudson too, and when he’s with them they help him forget about John. Except they don’t, not at all. Even when he’s with them, he is so very aware of the empty space by his side, and everytime he is hit with a strong pang of longing so profound that sometimes he feels ready to keel over. 

There’s a part of Sherlock that wonders why he hasn’t gotten back on the source yet, when the very reason he was striving to keep off of it had decided to leave him. He tells himself it’s because if something were to happen, if something were to strike, he needed to be in his best form and his best shape. He couldn’t be bogged down by the weight of the syringe. And yet, here he is, suffering from withdrawal alone in his flat, getting weaker by the day, all because he knows that the real reason why he’s not back on drugs is because he’s holding onto the sliver of hope that John will one day walk through those doors.

Then Lestrade, six weeks after John leaves him, comes to Sherlock with a case that leads him on the road down into Hell. 

*** 

Mary texts Sherlock sometimes. Little things. Updates, mostly. Well wishes.

_Bumped into Molly the other day at Tesco, said you weren’t looking too good. Take care of yourself, Sherlock. xx_

_I’m watching Crimewatch with John right now. There was a segment about you. xx_

_When you were living with John, did he always leave his empty mugs of tea lying around or has he adopted that habit just now? xx_

_Have you spoken to John lately? He’s always with me nowadays, was just wondering whether the two of you got into a tiff. Usually the two of you are off racing together somewhere. xx_

Most of the time Sherlock doesn’t reply. How can he? It’s a painful reminder of what he has lost. John leaving empty mugs around stirring his nostalgia, the painful awareness that John is out there somewhere, sitting at home with his pregnant wife, consciously choosing _not_ to be with him by his side as he swore to do. And most of all, talking to Mary just provides Sherlock with an acute awareness that he is talking to the woman John has chosen to be with, that he is with her every waking moment, that she gets to see him, when he cannot.

Sometimes, though, Sherlock replies.

_So I spoke with John and he told me he hasn’t spoken to you in a few weeks. What’s happened, Sherlock? Come over, talk to John. xx_

_I figured that the wisest decision would be to respect his wishes. I don’t think he would appreciate me knocking at your door. SH_  

_I suppose your logic is sound. Well, take care of yourself anyway, Sherlock. xx_  

Mary texts Sherlock sometimes. And everytime, the fierce longing he feels gets harder and harder to ignore. 

*** 

“Male, 40, John Doe for now unfortunately. Couldn’t find any identification on him and forensics aren’t done running the tests yet,” Lestrade said as he walked beside Sherlock towards the scene.

“You said he was a hostage victim?” Sherlock asked as he ducked under the tape, pausing to hold it up while Lestrade walked through. 

“Yeah, he was. Unlucky git. We don’t know who had him, though. No trace left.” 

“How’d you find out where he was, then?”

Lestrade frowned. “A note was faxed to the Yard.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Lestrade confirmed. 

“What did it say?” 

“It just said to come to this address. That there was someone being held hostage here. Said to hurry up, that time was ticking. We came as quick as we could. I called you in when we couldn’t find a trace.” 

Sherlock felt his lips turn downwards. There was something there, niggling at the back of his head that emerged when Lestrade started telling his story. But he didn’t know what. It was like a corn kernel stuck between teeth, you know it’s there, but you can’t get it out. 

They walked until they reached the door to the scene. It was a small warehouse, abandoned, and was probably used as an automobile repair shop in the 70s. 

Lestrade put his hand on the doorknob and pushed it open, and the first thing Sherlock’s senses picked up was the smell of blood. So much of it. There was such a metallic twang in the air that Sherlock could taste it in the back of his throat. It made his eyes and sinuses sting. 

Then Sherlock saw the body, and his whole world stuttered to a complete halt. The sting in his eyes and sinuses, the taste of blood in his throat, disappears within an instant. His heart shatters, and the glass shards make their way into his veins, a cold spike of ice and pain coursing through him. 

There, right in front of him, lying on top an ocean of spilled blood, was a short and stocky body of a man with silver-ash hair facing away from him. 

With a vest of Semtex strapped around his body, undetonated, and bullet wounds riddled straight through his chest. 

And the corn kernel finally dislodges. 

_Said to hurry up. That time was ticking._

_You solved the last case in 9 hours. This time you have 8._

_You have 12 hours._

_I’m serious, Sherlock. Listen, I’m cutting you slack here, I’m trusting you, but out there somewhere, some poor bastard’s covered in Semtex just waiting for you to solve the puzzle._

_Snipers at the pool. John in Semtex. Red dots on his chest. Bullets waiting to be fired._

_John Doe John Doe John Doe John Doe John Doe John Doe_

_John._

*** 

And Sherlock drowns, and drowns, and drowns, and drowns.

_(In cocaine. In morphine. In the pool.)_  

*** 

When he sleeps, rare as it may be, he dreams.

He dreams, more often than not, of John at the pool. With the vest of Semtex strapped around him, never getting the chance to detonate, because the sniper pulls the trigger first. A shot to the chest, to the heart, and blood is spilling, spilling, spilling. 

And Sherlock is watching, watching, watching, behind a wall of water, trying to claw through, trying to call out, but his voice is muted and dull and oppressed, and he is left to see John’s blood swirl like ink in the pool water. Dead, cold eyes, silver-ash hair stained red. 

When Sherlock wakes from his dream of what might have been, of what _could_ be, he finds himself, more often than not, to be screaming. 

*** 

Some people get a certain twisted pleasure from torment, Sherlock thinks, as he floats in his bed, the high of cocaine coursing through his body. It’s not like the kind of pleasure one gets from sitting down with a nice meal, or even a post-case high.

It is sick and ugly and perverse. And it is the mark of the one of the worst kinds of evil.

Whoever this is, whoever is playing this perverse game, Sherlock _hates_ them. 

The worst part is that Sherlock doesn’t know if the case callback was a threat or a warning.

***

“Well, what do we have here?”

Sherlock blinks open one eye, “Piss off, Mycroft.”

“No,” Mycroft replies simply, sitting gently on the edge of Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock watches him take a deep breath. “I’m worried about you, Sherlock.”

“Don’t be,” he turns away and burrows himself deeper into his blanket. “Go away.” 

“Don’t be childish. Lestrade told me what happened.” 

“Then you have no reason to be here.” 

“I’m here because, as much as I think caring is a disadvantageous farce, I do care for you,” Mycroft replied softly. He takes a glace at the syringes on Sherlock’s bedside table, and a peek through the bedroom door leading outside, where something akin to a meth lab has been set up in the kitchen. He frowns deeply. “Do you really think that was Moriarty?” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not Moriarty. Moriarty is dead.” 

“Yes, I know. You said. I meant whoever was behind the video.” 

Sherlock sits up slowly, a scowl set in place. “Who else could it be?” 

Mycroft purses his lips as he watches Sherlock’s eyes dart to the syringes on the bedside table, his fingers fluttering against the sheets rumpled on his lap. “Don’t,” he warns hardly. Sherlock moans. 

“I don’t really feel like dealing with you today, Mycroft. If you could just leave, that’d be lovely,” Sherlock replied, narrowed eyes set in place. 

“You don’t really feel like dealing with anything lately ever since that case. You have holed yourself up in here, back on the source. Mrs. Hudson tells me you haven’t left the flat. Look at you, Sherlock. You look ghastly.” 

Sherlock snorts. Mycroft sighs deeply and turns to face Sherlock further, hitching himself up further on the bed. 

“You need to get a hold of yourself, Sherlock. Whoever did that, if it _is_ whoever was behind that video, then you can’t stop now. They played their turn. You have a lead. I suggest you take it.” 

“It _is_ whoever was behind that video, Mycroft. It’ll take a fool not to see it. _Everything_ was a callback to the pool. The Semtex, the bullet wounds. All right down to a victim who resembles John. They couldn’t even find his name. He was just John Doe. Don’t you see? That night, at the pool, snipers were poised to shoot John. Whoever this is, they called back to my very first meeting with Moriarty. Whoever this is, they’re calling back to that day to show me that this time I’m not going to be so lucky.” 

“Then why on _earth_ are you still in bed, Sherlock? What are you doing?” Mycroft asked hardly, a tone of desperation underlying his words. 

Sherlock swallows, a pinprick behind his eyes as his mind flashes back to that moment in the warehouse. Except, in his memories, everything is sharp. Whereas the moment itself had been overwhelming, Sherlock’s memory of it is clear and still, like an untouched lake sitting silently under the light of the moon. Almost as if Sherlock’s mind had frozen the moment. 

And in _this_ moment, the one where Sherlock is sitting on his bed in his room, huddled to the edge and a blanket rumpled on his lap, he almost feels like a kid again. The room is silent save for him and Mycroft’s breathing, and even the usual London noise is dimmed, the only indication of life beyond the walls of 221B being the sun rays streaming through the window, illuminating the room in an almost hazy glow. It’s intimate, it’s warm, and perhaps it is this that makes him say it, or perhaps it is Mycroft’s soft and worried eyes, or maybe even both, but Sherlock, in _this_ moment, feels as if he is just that little boy he once was, hiding in his room, his big brother by his side. 

He says, “I’m scared.” 

Mycroft’s eyes grow sad. “Sher–” 

“The cocaine and the morphine help me deal with it. If I take enough, it distracts me from what’s happening. And if I stay in here, then I can forget. I can pretend, until the high wears off and I have to shoot up again, that none of this is happening.” 

Sherlock blinks up at Mycroft, his eyes wide, woeful, and so very, very sad. “I don’t want to play this game, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft feels a pang in his chest. He thinks it may be sorrow. Or maybe it is sadness. “No, I imagine you do not.” 

Mycroft watches as Sherlock bunches up his blanket further in his fists, twisting it harshly in his hands, and he is hit with a sharp twinge of sympathy. He looks at Sherlock, and he sees his little brother as a small child, in his bed, afraid and terrified, and Mycroft knows, deep down in the chambers of his chest where his heart is kept in lock and key, that his little brother does not deserve this. He remembers a teenager and a little boy sitting in a bedroom, still young and wide-eyed and untarnished by the world, and he wonders when it had all gone so wrong. 

It is in this stillness of remembrance that Mycroft whispers imploringly, “But brother mine, it is a game you _must_ win.”

*** 

Mycroft leaves after that, and Sherlock watches him enter his sleek black car from the living room window. He turns away when the car disappears into the London traffic, becoming another car among thousands.

He turns, sits in his chair, and thinks. 

When he had seen John Doe’s body, his mind was pervaded with nothing but _John John John John John_. The memory brings back a cold spike, and Sherlock remembers feeling a great fear akin to almost nothing he had never experienced before.

John, on the floor, bleeding.

John, on the floor, dead.

In a way, it had shocked Sherlock into silence. He remembers very little after laying eyes on the body, and only remembers Lestrade’s voice asking if he was okay, a curse, and then suddenly Sherlock was tucked in his bed. He remembers very little, and perhaps that is for the best. Sherlock does not want to remember any more of that day than he has to.

That day was three weeks ago. And ever since then he has been holed up in his flat, not answering any messages or any calls, getting high on drugs day in and day out. He wonders, sadly, how his life had managed to become this.

Sherlock prides himself on remembering facts. Relevant things that would perhaps be helpful in the future. And he also prided himself on being able to delete those things that he did not deem pertinent. Those things that were not important.

But the thing is, Sherlock remembers everything about John. The good, the bad. Sherlock had concluded a long time ago that he is unable to delete anything about John. Once, he had reveled in this, in knowing almost everything about this amazing, wonderful man. But now he is filled with such sheer hatred at himself, at his mental faculties, for not being able to delete the image of John dead on the floor. He wants to get rid of it. He doesn’t want to _see_ it.

For once, Sherlock _hates_ his mind.

For once, Sherlock wants to tear it to pieces.

For once, Sherlock lets himself to actively, purposefully, do just that.

_(It is the move that, unknowingly to all players, changes the game.)_


End file.
